The Wistful Incense
The first entry is dated the third day of the Frost. I am Elias Thorne, forty-two years old, and I have been stripped of my title. The Inquisitor, a man whose face is a perfect, blank mirror, stood in my laboratory this morning. He did not speak. He simply pointed to the shadows on the wall, which were peeling away from the floor like damp paper. The rule in Oria is simple: the shadow is the...
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